The Robbers' Cave: A Tale of Italy

By Charlotte Maria Tucker

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• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547185468

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Charlotte Maria Tucker

The Robbers' Cave: A Tale of Italy

EAN 8596547185468

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. A CALABRIAN INN.

CHAPTER II. A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER.

CHAPTER III. BITTER WORDS.

CHAPTER IV. SEPARATION.

CHAPTER V. ROUGH COMPANY.

CHAPTER VI. THE ROBBERS' CAVE.

CHAPTER VII. MUSIC AND MADNESS.

CHAPTER VIII. A DASH FOR FREEDOM.

CHAPTER IX. ANXIOUS HOURS.

CHAPTER X. THE LONE SENTINEL.

CHAPTER XI. THE ORPHAN'S TALE.

CHAPTER XII. HOW THE LIGHT WAS LIT.

CHAPTER XIII. FAILURE.

CHAPTER XIV. TIDINGS.

CHAPTER XV. ONWARDS.

CHAPTER XVI. A PERILOUS PASS.

CHAPTER XVII. ONE EFFORT MORE.

CHAPTER XVIII. VICTORY.

The Moody Colportage Library

CHAPTER I.

A CALABRIAN INN.

Table of Contents

Lazy dog! can't he drive faster—keeping us grilling here in the heat! I should like to have the use of his whip for a few minutes and try its effect upon his shoulders! Such was the impatient exclamation of Horace Cleveland, as for the third time he thrust his head out of the carriage window.

I wish that we had never come to Calabria at all! sighed his mother. Horace was resuming his lounging position in the carriage, after hurling a few Italian words of abuse at the driver, as she added, It was a nonsensical whim of yours, Horace, to bring us into this wild land, when we might have remained in comfort at Naples, with every convenience around us, such as my weak health so much requires.

Convenience! repeated Horace contemptuously, would you compare the luxuries of Naples, its drives, its bouquets, its ices, its idle amusements, with the glorious scenery of a land like this? Look what a splendid mountain rises there, all clothed to the very summit with myrtle, aloes, and cactus, where here and there stands a tall palm, like the king of the forest, overlooking the rest. And see what an expanse—what an ocean of olives stretches yonder!

I do not admire the olive, with its rugged stem and dull dingy leaves, observed Mrs. Cleveland.

Not when the breeze ruffles those leaves, and shows their silver linings? look there now,—how beautiful they appear under the brightness of an Italian sky!

I am too weary to admire anything, said Mrs. Cleveland with a yawn, and it seems as if we were never to reach the inn at Staiti. The heat is almost suffocating.

I say, halloed Horace to the driver, how long shall we be in arriving at Staiti?

The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and without taking the trouble to turn round made reply, We shall not be there till twenty-four o'clock, signore.

Twenty-four o'clock! exclaimed Horace; not surprised, however, by the expression, as the reader may possibly be, as he was familiar with the Italian mode of reckoning the twenty-four hours from sunset to sunset. Is there no inn,—no locanda, where we could rest on the way?

Si, signore, answered the Calabrese, pointing onwards with his whip to a small, irregularly built house, which seemed wedged between two masses of rock overgrown with cactus, and which was so much of the color of the cliffs, that one might fancy that it had grown out of them.

It looks much more picturesque than comfortable, observed Horace, drawing back his head, and showing the inn to his mother.

Let's stop there—or anywhere, gasped Mrs. Cleveland, fanning herself with the air of one whose patience as well as strength is almost exhausted. I can go no further to-day.

We can stop and bait, said Horace; and again he leaned out of the window to give his orders to the driver in the haughty tone of command which he seemed to think befitting an English milordo.

It was clear at a glance that Horace Cleveland regarded himself as one of the lords of creation, and, from national or family or personal pride, considered himself superior to all such of his fellow-creatures as he might meet in Calabria. His manner, even to his mother, was petulant and imperious. Horace Cleveland had had, indeed, much to foster his vanity and strengthen his pride. Horace occupied a proud position in his school, and he plumed himself not a little upon it. The boy is father of the man, sang the poet; and on the strength of that aphorism Horace built up a high tower of airy hopes. He had been accustomed to be admired, imitated, followed, in the little world of a public school, and he expected to hold the same place in the great world, which he soon must enter. Horace felt himself born to command.

The youth's triumphs at school had hardly tended to make him more agreeable at home. He was an only child, and his widowed mother regarded him as her all in all. Very proud was Mrs. Cleveland of his talents, very proud of his success: with fond admiration she gazed on his open, handsome countenance,—the high forehead, the clear gray eye, and thought that amongst all his companions none could compare with her son. And yet Mrs. Cleveland was by no means altogether contented with Horace. She would have been better pleased had he exhibited less spirit and more submission. Horace was eager to claim a man's independence; Mrs. Cleveland clung to a parent's authority. It is probable that the lady would have retained more influence over her boy, had she exercised it more judiciously. She had been as an unskillful rider, who, instead of keeping a light but firm hand on the bridle, alternately threw down the rein and caught it up to jerk the mouth of his restive steed, and irritate its temper. Delicate health and weak nerves had combined to make the widowed lady sometimes peevish, and even unreasonable; and her will often clashed with that of her son to a degree that caused a painful jar upon the feelings of both. Thus those who were dearer to each other than all the world besides, were each not unfrequently a source of annoyance and irritability even to the being best beloved.

I am sure that it was great folly to come to Calabria at all! exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, as the chaise drew up at the door of the inn.

Now this was what Horace could not endure to hear, since it had been to gratify his wishes, and quite against her own judgment, that his mother had quitted Naples for the mountainous south of Italy. Moreover Horace had heard that same exclamation nearly ten times already on that day, and the effect of heat and weariness had drawn largely on his stock of patience. Ready to vent his ill-humor on the first thing that he touched, Horace flung open the door of the chaise as he might have hit at a foe, and rudely pushed aside a young Italian who had come forward to help the lady to alight. The hot blood rose to the stranger's sun-burnt cheek, and a look of anger, instantly repressed, passed like lightning over his face. Mrs. Cleveland caught the look, transient as it was, and as she walked into the inn, laid her hand on the arm of her son, and whispered to him in English:

For mercy's sake, do not treat these people with rudeness. You know that all these Italians carry stilettos in their vests; we are alone—amongst strangers!

Horace's only reply was a look to express contempt for all Italians in general, and this one in particular, and a disregard for all considerations founded upon personal fear. He snatched up a grip, and one or two shawls from the chaise, and carried them into the locanda, being too much out of humor to offer his mother the support of his arm.

Mrs. Cleveland was shown into the little inn by its master, who came forth to meet her. He was a stout, red-faced man with one eye, and a countenance by no means prepossessing.

Giuseppina! Giuseppina! he shouted.

A Calabrese girl, barefooted, attired in a bright blue dress with an orange border, and wearing large gold ear-rings and chain, came to answer the call. Guided by her the weary lady entered a small, close room which might be termed the parlor, but which was evidently put to many more uses. The entrance of the visitors disturbed a hen and a whole brood of sickly chickens, which cackling and fluttering made a hasty retreat across the threshold. On one part of the dirty earthen floor was piled a set of empty wine-skins, the odor from which blended with the more disagreeable scent from some thousands of silk-worm cocoons, heaped together in a corner.

Have you no better quarters to give us than this hole? cried Horace to Giuseppina in the Italian language, which he spoke with ease.

No, signore, replied the girl, as she swept from the table a confused litter of old sacking, chaff and oakum, in order to make preparation for the coming meal, which Horace, with a look of disgust, forthwith proceeded to order. Mrs. Cleveland, being less familiar with the language, usually left such arrangements to her son.

What can you give us? asked Horace.

Ebene, signore, maccaroni, replied the bare-footed maiden.

Maccaroni, of course, and what besides?

Giuseppina glanced to the right at the wine-skins, then to the left at the heap of cocoons, as if to gather from them some culinary idea, shrugged her shoulders and suggested omelet, but in a tone expressive of doubt.

Omelet then, and anything else that you may have, and be quick, for the lady is weary and wants refreshment! cried Horace.

Giuseppina showed her white teeth in a smile and quitted the parlor.

One is stifled in this horrible den! exclaimed Horace, stalking up to the window, and throwing it open. Very little air was admitted on that sultry afternoon, but there came the sound of voices from without.

What are the people doing outside, Horace? faintly inquired Mrs. Cleveland.

Like Italians—doing nothing, was the reply, They are merely gathering round that young man whom we saw at the door, apparently to listen to his singing, for he has a guitar in his hand.

That Italian whom you struck? inquired Mrs. Cleveland.

I did not strike him—I only pushed him back. These fellows must be taught to know their own place, Horace haughtily replied.

My dear boy, said Mrs. Cleveland, leaning forward on the chair on which she had wearily sunk, you must acquire, indeed you must, a more gentle and conciliatory manner. In a wild, strange place like this, altogether out of the bounds of civilization, a thoughtless act might bring serious trouble—a wanton insult might cost a life!

Horace did not answer, and as he remained looking out the window, his mother could not see on his face the effect of her gentle reproof, she saw, however, that he was impatiently moving his foot up and down, which was his trick when he had to listen to anything which it did not please him to hear.

A few chords on a guitar, touched by a skillful hand, were now heard, and immediately the hum of voices without was silenced.

I hate to see a man play a guitar! exclaimed Horace. As he spoke, the tones of a voice singularly melodious and rich mingled with those of the instrument, and Mrs. Cleveland, weary as she felt, was lured to the window to listen.

Surrounded by a group of Calabrese stood the musician. He was simply but picturesquely attired, after the fashion of his country; the red jacket, not worn, but carried across the